


Possibility Days

by ThatClumsyGirl



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Memories, One-Sided Attraction, Post-Series, Suicide, World War I, features scenes from Episode 2.02, many other characters are name-checked, or maybe not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-01 18:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatClumsyGirl/pseuds/ThatClumsyGirl
Summary: Footfalls echo in the memoryDown the passage which we did not takeTowards the door we never openedInto the rose-garden. My words echoThus, in your mind.(T. S. Eliot, Burnt Norton, 1936)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a song by the Counting Crows, which is good but has nothing to do with this fic.  
> Complete poem from the summary here: http://www.coldbacon.com/poems/fq.html (Read it, you know you want to)
> 
> Okay, this wasn't supposed to happen. It is the result of a Downton Abbey marathon and afterwards going through a book of quotations for completely unrelated reasons and being inspired by that quote above. Then I realised Thomas/Edward is my OTP and it ran away with me. Oops.  
> I decided to take a few liberties here and there but not enough to call it a canon-divergence. If any of this sounds familiar from other authors' fics, it is an accident and I sincerely apologise. (After all, they only had like 5 minutes of screen-time. There is a limit to original things to write about them in canon, I suppose)  
> Hopefully, my English isn't too anachronistic for the setting – if you find anything that hurts your eyes and it bothers you, pray tell. One can never know enough about old-timey English :)  
> Now, enjoy this doomed pairing from times long past.

1936

The Great Depression seems officially “over”, Thomas observes, the papers have stopped writing about it, anyway. Now, they report on the continuing building boom, worries about a political march in East London turning violent* and whispers of a growing threat in Germany. Downton has survived the last ten years by the skin of its teeth and the clever management of Lady Mary and (Thomas grudgingly admits) Mr. Branson. But change has not passed them by.

The servants' hall has grown empty after Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson retired for good and Andy and Daisy (now the author of a cookbook and mother of three-year-old William) got married and moved to Yew Tree Farm. Daisy still comes in to help the ageing Mrs. Patmore when there is a large party and Andy also lends a hand whenever he is needed. The Bateses, who have two children now, are still going about their duties much as they always have, but with more time off than anyone ever thought possible. Ms. Baxter – who, in true Downton-style, stayed Baxter after marrying Mr. Molesley – has been promoted to housekeeper and Mrs. Baxter. Though, these days, Thomas calls her Phyllis when they are alone, just as he had as a child. The other servants currently sitting around the table – two housemaids, a kitchen-maid and one quasi-footman who doubles as a chauffeur when needed – all live in the village and don't take Downton and work here half as seriously as they should. It has been ages since they've had a house-party or a grand dinner and Thomas fears they will all get out of practice soon. Not to mention, it is way more boring than it used to be.

Absently, Thomas skims through the newspaper, until a name catches the corner of his eye. _Mr. E. Courtenay_. It hits him like a blow to the jaw and his knees would weaken, were he standing. How absurdly embarrassing to be affected by a simple name in an article that has nothing to do with anything. Probably not even a relation.

“Mr. Barrow, are you quite alright?”, Phyllis asks softly, “You look like you've seen a ghost”

'I have', he wants to say. It's not like he doesn't think of his old friend Edward often, but he does it in a controlled, private way, when he is mentally prepared for the pain, all the pain, that comes with the thought. “I'm fine” Thomas hastily throws the newspaper onto the table and gets up, not feeling the ounce of thrill he still usually does when everyone else has to get up as well. “Carry on” He slips out into the backyard to have a cigarette, like countless times before, and allow himself to indulge in memories for a while.

 

“ _Thomas, can you give Lieutenant Courtenay his pills?”_

 

These words changed his life and Lady S- _Nurse Crawley_ who said them, had been completely unaware of that, as had Thomas, when he first laid eyes on the injured soldier with the unruly auburn curls and the restless hands. Instantly, Thomas had felt very drawn to him and it was easy to misinterpret the reason for that. It was not because Edward was beautiful (well, not _only_ ), it was something bigger than that.

 

 

_It was the oddest feeling. Thomas actually found himself_ wanting _to be kind, longing for it. He cared for all patients and did his duty but Lieutenant Courtenay struck a special chord. The vulnerable man with the bandage across his eyes touched him in an unexpected way few people did. He was young, far too young to lose his livelihood in such a tragic way, a little too slight for his clothes and seemed lost in the all-encompassing darkness his life now consisted of. All other nurses were afraid to go near him – except Nurse Crawley who was indiscriminately kind and also seemed to rise to every challenge – some even flat-out reluctant to acknowledge his presence and Thomas soon found out why: Lieutenant Edward Courtenay had given up. He was defeated, hopeless and cynical, even angry at times. He showed the people around him their worst fears, just by lying listlessly in his bed, too broken to bother, to join their fight against despair – dead man walking. Or rather, not walking._

_And Thomas recognised the bitterness and the anger from when he had spent all his life being nasty and unkind to everyone around him, intent of letting no-one get too close to him for fear of being rejected in the end. Lieutenant Courtenay was not unkind or nasty – in fact, he was always perfectly civil with the nurses, in a hollow way, like a child reciting in school without understanding the contents – just as bleak as a Charles-Dickens-novel and determined to deny every sense of hope as vehemently as possible for fear of disappointment. Thomas knew it was armour and it was wanting in effectiveness. And he knew what it was like when no-one cared for you enough to break through that armour._

“ _It doesn't help me to be lied to, you know. I'm finished. And I'd rather face it than dodge it”, the Lieutenant said in that intense way of his, with a hint of sharpness, that left Thomas struck dumb for a moment. But there was something that belied the words. Something small and hidden, reaching out of the darkness._

_Gale-force compassion almost knocked Thomas over backwards. “I'd better go” He saw Lieutenant Courtenay turn away, subdued, as he left and he knew he would not be kept at arm's length. He, Thomas Barrow, was going to salvage that spark he had seen just now, nurture it and turn it into a fire. If he had managed to get up every time he had been beaten down, so could Courtenay._

 

 

It was a simple reason, really. Thomas had seen lives lost, soldiers drawing their last breaths under his hands, nothing he could do about it. The thought makes him shudder in broad sunlight even today. And then there was Edward, within reach, a life Thomas _could_ save, if only he tried hard enough, if only he found the words to rekindle the flame of hope that simply had to be there somewhere, underneath the despair. Like it had been there in the colourless mud, wafting through the screams and explosions that had filled the air, reflected in the haunted eyes of fellow men – a thread of hope, tiny and fragile like a strand of cobweb, that kept you going even when your comrades were dying left, right and centre. _'Are we downhearted? No!'**_

Thinking of it in later years, Thomas was always convinced that he himself had gotten through alright. Yes, he had a scarred hand – but he still _had_ the hand and, after a while, could make almost full use of it – and he had nightmares, still has them today, but he came through with his wits and his future intact. What had been left of his innocence, well, that had stayed in the trenches, the moment he had raised that lighter. But he could move through life with as much independence as circumstance permitted. Edward and too many other young men were not quite so lucky. And it seems to Thomas that he was the only one who realised how badly Edward was really doing. A frustrating thought, even today.

 

 

_A strangled whimper led Thomas to Lieutenant Courtenay's bed again and he found him just the way he had the previous night, writhing beneath the sheets, his hands bound to the bed railings with padded leather straps. To save him from ripping off the bandage and scratching his eyes out, the nurses had told Thomas, they couldn't keep knocking the man out with morphine and the like, not forever, and they couldn't keep watch over him all day and night specifically. Most soldiers had nightmares – some went through them kicking and screaming – woke up, realised where they were and laid back, relieved. Lieutenant Courtenay, though, was a different case. He did wake up, not knowing where he was, and spent quite some time trying to figure out if he had been captured by Germans and thrown into a pitch-black dungeon and if his memories of going home had just been a dream. Tying him up at night, though medically necessary, did nothing to ameliorate the situation._

“ _Lieutenant”, Thomas called softly, “Lieutenant Courtenay. Wake up, sir” He grabbed his shoulder and the young man gasped and bit his lip so hard it turned white, terrified of crying out and making his position known to the enemy. It was hard to tell with half his face obscured by gauze, but he seemed to be awake. “It's fine, you're safe. It's me, Barrow. You're back in England, remember?” The nurses had tried that, also, but it only worked half of the time._

“ _'s so dark”, he mumbled, turning his head aimlessly, “Why is it so d-_ Oh _” The way his face fell when he remembered was enough to break any man's heart._

_'It's night', Thomas almost told him, but what was the bloody point? It was always night in Lieutenant Courtenay's world. He reached for his wrist instead. “Here, let me help you with these” Thomas swiftly unbuckled the straps and almost regretted it when Courtenay's hands went to the bandages as soon as he had sat up. But he left them alone, just rubbed his face like any man would after an exertion; a nervous habit, no doubt. His urgent shuddering breaths slowed down a bit._

“ _Tell me what's going on in this room, please?” Lieutenant Courtenay managed to banish the distress from his voice, but his hands clutched in the bedding and his fidgety attempts to 'look around' betrayed him. He was still afraid, still not completely convinced he was in a country hospital in Yorkshire._

_It wrenched Thomas' heart right from his chest. He sat down on the edge of the bed in order to be able to speak quietly, not to wake the others. “Well, it's about three in the morning. There's not so much going on. You'll have to be more specific, sir”_

“ _The … the screaming, just now … Never mind. It was probably in my dream” He swallowed hard and leaned back, not relaxed but trying to look the part.“Carry on, Corporal. I mustn't keep you from your duties”_

“ _My duty is to make sure every patient gets the help he needs. So, is there anything you need?” Thomas could literally see him bite back a cynical response.“And don't say a time-machine or any such thing. It's too early in the morning for that … sir”_

“ _I was going to say: 'My old life', but your idea is better” Courtenay gave him that hopeless half-smile of his. “You know, the problem is … I keep forgetting … I dream about the war and – as bad as they are – in those dreams, I can see. And when I wake up and all is black, I just … Sometimes I don't even really wake up … And then I listen and I listen and that makes it worse, somehow. I'm too afraid to call out, too afraid to move. Until I can tell from the noises I'm really here … And it doesn't just happen at night”_

_The nurses had said as much and Thomas was sure, Major Clarkson had already made a note in a file somewhere about it. “They say you always reach for something with your right hand when you … don't quite wake up” The word 'sleepwalking' came to mind but that didn't really cover it._

“ _My pistol”_

“ _Of course … What if we gave you something else to reach for? Something you didn't have in the war and that can only be here, so you will know you're not back there. Like maybe … I don't know. Do you have anything? A pocket-watch or a book or something?” Thomas wondered where that came from and why no-one else had thought of it before._

“ _I'm afraid not. I'm not even convinced it would work”_

“ _That's why we have to try. We'll just have to borrow something distinctive” A mad idea suddenly occurred to Thomas. “I might have just the thing, sir”_

_The next day before his shift started, he crossed the room, his gift weighing heavily in his pocket. “You remember that little thing I mentioned to help you wake up?”, he asked after they had exchanged greetings, “Well, here it is. What do you think?” Thomas' nerves were strung as he put the little angular object in his hand for inspection._

_Even though his features were still half covered, it was obvious how puzzled Lieutenant Courtenay was. “Is this … a lighter with a bullet hole?”_

“ _It doesn't even spark anymore, sir. So there's no risk of setting the bed on fire” Thomas tried for a casual tone but he himself heard his voice flutter. Why in Hell was he so nervous? It wasn't like the lighter could speak. He had mentioned his injury to the Lieutenant once when he had asked about the glove, called it 'a little mishap while lighting a cigarette in battle' and brushed it off. The other man probably wouldn't even realise the significance of the bloody thing._

“ _Where did you …? Heavens, it's the one that got you shot, isn't it? I cannot take it, it must mean a great deal to you” Lieutenant Courtenay ran his fingers across the frayed metal as if it were some holy relic._

“ _You can return it when we've found something else … I have to get to work now” He turned to leave, desperate to end this awkward situation._

“ _Corporal Barrow!”, the Lieutenant called, his voice threatening to choke up, and Thomas turned back around although he didn't really have to, “Thank you”_

 

 

Thomas is still amazed this idea had worked out in the end. The bandages and the need to scratch at them were soon gone but the nightmares stayed and more often than not Edward was found with the lighter cradled in his hand, one finger hooked into the bullet hole. It was a good thing then that Thomas had held on to the little piece of scrap-metal with his good hand, just after being shot, even if he hadn't known why he was doing it at the time. He likes to think he was being sentimental, though in reality he was probably somewhere between relieved and still out of his mind with fear.

 

“ _War has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter and the things that don't”_

 

Thomas is sure bailing out from the front was not what Captain Crawley had meant when he'd said that sentence, but it had made Thomas realise that _survival_ was what mattered. Death was certain and he refused to accept it, to lie down in the mud and take it as it came. There was more left to his life than that; he had choices. He had to get out while he still could. And if he did, there was enough time and opportunity to redeem himself. If he didn't, well, he was going to go to Hell anyway. Thomas still wonders about that warped logic but it had been the best thing his brain could come up with after running on panic ever since he'd first crossed the Channel. It had taken all the courage left in his miserable heart to raise his hand.

And yet, Thomas, like everyone else, considered it the easy way out as soon as he was able to think straight. Desertion still got you shot dead in the end after all, if you weren't careful, and kept you looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life, if you were. Whereas, if you had a sacrifice of limb to show, no-one dared question it and as long as you didn't speak out about it, it was your own dark secret. Thomas seemed prone to dark secrets, especially at that time of his life. It was so typical for his young self to take the most dishonest path to reach his goal. And what other way was there, if he wanted a true chance to return home? So he had done it. Fought fear with fear. The pain that had followed had made him feel more grateful than anything in his life ever.

When the instrument of his indecent exit found a new home in Edward's hands and managed to give him some comfort, Thomas considered it a step on the path to redemption because the other man had been wounded properly, in the honourable way. Naturally, Edward didn't quite see it like that.

 

 

“ _I'm not a hero, Corporal. Far from it”_

“ _How …?” Thomas stopped short. It was pushing boundaries, maybe overstepping them by far. Despite all his realism and honesty about the current situation and his non-existent future, it was talking about the past that seemed to have the worst impact on Courtenay's mood._

“ _I was too slow … I was supposed to go on leave in the morning and maybe I was a little distracted. When the attack came, I wasn't prepared, it's as simple as that … One tiny moment in time and life is never the same again. And I have only myself to blame … Yet I survived and others did not” He was so bitter, one could almost taste it._

_Thomas wanted to say something, wanted to wipe away that self-deprecating tone and the underlying guilt but he found himself unable to, as usual. Lieutenant Courtenay really had an unfailing way with that gut-punching frankness that put everyone on their toes when dealing with him._

_For once, the Lieutenant seemed to notice what he had done and he stopped waiting for an answer. “You … you volunteered, just like that. Not because it was expected of you or anything”_

_'Yeah, I also volunteered for a bullet through my hand', Thomas didn't say. He couldn't tell him that. Not yet, maybe never. “Sir, when I volunteered it wasn't even certain Britain would really get involved in the war. And I definitely wasn't expecting to be sent into the trenches proper. In fact, by volunteering early, I thought I could get around battle altogether”_

“ _How were you hoping to do that? You being a fit young man and everything” There was no sarcasm behind the question, only honest curiosity._

“ _I thought I could establish myself here before it started. But life had other plans. They sent us over there straight after training … You know, I'm just here by sheer dumb luck and by calling in all the favours I ever had in this world”_

_Thomas half expected Courtenay to laugh at the naiveté of it all, but no such thing happened. “This is the right place for you, that is easy to tell. And I think you are collecting new favours every day … You do great work here, Corporal Barrow. You put your heart into it”_

“ _Erm, well … Thank you, sir” Damn, when he said something nice, one felt even more disarmed. “For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm really making a difference and it's good to know it pays off” It was true, even. War had humbled him like that._

_Lieutenant Courtenay – God knew how long it had been since the last time – smiled without pain and bitterness and irony. It was such a mind-numbingly unexpected development, Thomas almost missed what he said. “I am so glad you're here”_

 

 

At the time, Thomas was thinking hard about his future. There was no way he was going back into service, he was going to make more of his life. Also, as one short visit to Downton had shown him, service made him be his old scheming bastardly self and he felt, with his new-found kind and caring heart, that he was better than that. (It sounds pretty ironic from where he's standing today, doesn't it?) So, when the war ended, why not stick with nursing or health care or anything of the sort? Lady Sybil wasn't the only one who had found her calling in the hospital. Yes, when he had first volunteered, it had been a calculated decision but Thomas really came to believe in it, once he had noticed how good it felt to actually help people, despite all the horrors that came in the same package. Then, of course, Edward died and Thomas' wish to care for others died with him.

It was another path not taken. Edward was a victim of the system and Thomas refused to work for a system that turned people in need away. He thinks of William and how it had taken a good chunk of influence to get him transferred to Downton. Without the Dowager's, usually well-hidden, good heart the poor lad would have died in a strange place, all alone, thinking of all the people he had not seen one last time. Thomas is sure that there were too many men who did die like that, defeated by formalities, with no cane-wielding old Lady to fend for them and no Daisy to marry them on their death-bed and make even Thomas' frozen heart melt a bit. And some, like Edward, did not even get a spot on a memorial plaque. (Thomas had come through his home village by chance one day and checked) He had never found out where Edward had been buried or, having committed suicide, if he'd had a proper church burial at all. They might have just laid him to rest under a nameless white cross in that dark corner in Downton cemetery where the poor unbaptised babies went. Or, more likely, his family did come round in the end and at least took his body home and put him in their crypt with his ancestors, after they had written him off while he was still alive.

 

 

_It was the first letter from Lieutenant Courtenay's mother since he'd been wounded and as Thomas read it to him, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something in the posh, ambiguous way she placed her words that he was missing. Some underlying theme that made the young soldier square his shoulders tensely and bear it with quiet weariness. Until he didn't. “... Things cannot be as they were and whatever you might think, Jack has your best interests at heart-”_

“ _Stop”_

“ _Who's Jack?” Certainly someone very close to him when the name elicited that reaction._

“ _My younger brother … He means to replace me – It's what he's always wanted” There was resignation in his tone, even more than usual. This battle seemed to be a long-running one._

“ _Yeah … well ...” 'Siblings, what can you do', was what Thomas was going to say until it hit him full force and it was all he could do not to get up and punch something. The letter confirmed what Lieutenant Courtenay had doubtlessly thought about in one of his darker moments: He was a complication, a liability of war, and, to his family, better off dead, so the always favoured younger brother could step forward. Why didn't they come straight here and smother him with a pillow in his sleep? That would be kinder than not-so-subtly suggesting he should off himself._

“ _I'm sorry, I mustn't bore you”, he said in that hollow repressed tone, enforced by a society which didn't care that this man urgently needed to talk about his feelings and maybe scream and cry a little._

_Thomas was not going to have this. They were putting one more burden on Courtenay's shoulders and it wasn't fair by half, making an already defeated man feel as bad as this instead of supporting him like a family should. “Don't let them walk all over you. You've got to fight your corner” And he had Thomas in that corner now, whether he wanted him or not._

“ _What with?” Cynical amusement showed in his voice and on his face._

“ _Your brain” Of course, silly clever boy. He could still run the estate, he didn't have to see for that, all he needed was a suitable assistant. “You're not a victim. Don't let them make you into one”_

“ _You know, when you talk like that, I almost believe you” His voice was wavering, if with pain or with hope was hard to tell._

“ _Well, you should believe me” Thomas desperately wanted to touch him to show his support, to wrap him up in his arms and tell him everything was going to be fine. But of course he couldn't do that. War or no war, Lieutenant Courtenay was still his social superior, he was still male and they were still English. He settled for the next best thing: opening his heart as much as he dared. “All my life, they've pushed me around, just 'cause I'm different”_

“ _How? Why are you different?” There was that honest curiosity again, like he was actually interested. And maybe he really was._

_Thomas felt his breath catch and the fear rise in his chest. He couldn't say it, he wasn't ready. “Never mind … Look … Look, I … I don't know if you're going to see again or not. But I do know you have to fight back” After all, this man had survived the war. What was the use of that if he let someone else throw his life away for him?_

_For a second, Thomas thought Lieutenant Courtenay was actually going to cry but then he did something even more unexpected: He put his hand on Thomas' knee, without searching or hesitating, a warm steady hand. And it was in that moment that things changed from 'you' and 'I' to 'we'. Thomas took his hand and held it securely._

 

 

Who knows what would've happened if Edward had had his family on his side and not only Thomas to fight for him when he could not do it himself. All they would have needed to do was take one step towards him and tell him he was still welcome in his own home once he had been discharged from hospital. It wasn't like Edward had _done_ anything to them. After all, from what Thomas could gather without digging too deep, it had been them in the first place who had pressured him into enlisting because he was a young country gentleman and it was the thing to do. (What if he had waited to be drafted instead?) And Edward did it – afraid beyond measure, bravely – like he had apparently done so many things to appease his parents who still favoured Jack. Thomas wonders what was so special about the younger Courtenay brother and what they had found wrong with Edward who, before his injury, appeared to have been a perfectly normal man.

Whatever the background, it made Edward reach out to Thomas again and again, like Thomas was his lifeline and without him he would drown. It was as if he needed someone to be the hope he could not find within himself, the voice of reason that stood up to his self-deprecation and survivor's guilt. That is the only bearable explanation for why Edward became so attached to him in so short a time. Everything else is a most dangerous trip down 'what if?'-lane.

They were both very attached to each other and both never ceased to be amazed by that. By the simple fact that they had, among pain, fear and death, met a person who wanted them close and who agreed to live in the moment with them. And they were both relieved when they finally consciously passed from a patient/medic standard relationship to friends, while on a walk up the path behind the hospital.

 

 

“ _I haven't gone anywhere alone ever since … it happened”, Lieutenant Courtenay said after enjoying the noises of the outside world, devoid of hospital sounds, for a while._

“ _Well, wouldn't you like to? Just to be in private for a little moment” In fact, he was holding on to Thomas' arm for dear life. But Thomas wasn't complaining; it was just odd._

“ _I'm not sure I … I don't think I can even stand up without someone holding my arm. It's just, I don't see where up is and it confuses me to no end. It's like being seasick”, he said matter-of-factly._

“ _You should try it” Thomas slowly untangled their arms until they were barely hanging on by the fingertips. “Go on, you can do it” He let go and stepped away. “Take a step forward, I'm right here”_

_Lieutenant Courtenay moved his hands about as if he were searching for something solid to hold on to again. “It's so weird. I'm afraid if I take my foot off the ground I won't be able to find my way back. Does that sound ridiculous?” He shuffled his feet forward a few inches._

“ _Just a little bit. Sir. Because you know that's not true … You can rely on the laws of physics. The ground is still where you left it, whether you can see it or not”_

“ _It's so very you of you to call on my rationality in a situation like this, Barrow” He took a staggering step and it was heartbreaking to hear his voice so steady but see him so insecure at the same time._

“ _I couldn't let your mind run away with you. I'd never be able to catch up”, Thomas answered in a calm and cheerful tone._

_It reminded him of how his older sister had taught him how to swim. Just pushed him into the deep water when she'd thought he was ready and moved away a few feet. And Thomas had felt detached, lost somehow, like an insignificant little dot in a big sea of nowhere. That was probably how Lieutenant Courtenay felt all the time. Like falling and not falling, stationary and moving. Thomas had mercy on him and led him back to a bench to sit down and get his bearings for a minute._

_He did recover eventually and even smiled a little. “Can I ask you a favour, Corporal?”_

“ _Of course” It was probably not a request to write a letter, he wouldn't look so shy if it were. Or maybe it was a special kind of letter to a lady friend somewhere._

“ _When we're alone like this, would you call me by my Christian name?” It came out hurried and breathless and they were both aware of the boundaries they were crossing with such a simple thing. “Just if you don't mind. Only, no-one calls me by it here and I don't know when and if I will go home to my family again and you and I-” He broke off, embarrassed, picking at the cuffs of his sleeves with his restless fingers._

_It was completely unexpected and it gave Thomas a head rush like getting up too fast. But it was welcome. “Of course”, Thomas repeated, then pointedly: “I'd like that, Edward” He left him hanging for a few seconds – it was morbidly fascinating to see him struggle with something so trivial when he was usually so forward. “And, yes, I would like it if you called me by mine, also, if you want” But he would have to get himself to ask about it, of course._

“ _Very good … Thomas” Lieut-_ Edward _smiled softly and seemed to hear the unspoken question. “It's what Nurse Crawley calls you when she's tired and forgets she's not supposed to”_

“ _Oh, yes, people do that out of habit. To them, I'm still the footman from the big house” Even Ms. O'Brien, who was the closest thing he had to a friend, probably did. After all, she had never offered he'd call her Sarah._

“ _And is there anyone who calls you by your name out of fondness? You know, family, friends at home?” There was a frown on his face, but it was different, it was … worried?_

“ _My family … lives in Manchester but I don't hear from them anymore” He had only written once in the last few years, to tell them he was going to war. And he knew they prayed he'd stay there. “This is my home, but … no, there is no-one”_

_The sad half-smile appeared on Edward's lips and he seemed to swallow around a lump in his throat. “Well, there is me now” Then he shook his head and nudged Thomas with his elbow. “We're quite a pair, aren't we?”_

_For some reason, it made Thomas laugh out loud and the fact that he couldn't remember when he had last done that made him choke. They were a pair … of castaways on a single piece of driftwood. Or maybe they were each other's lighthouses. Only with the lights broken._

 

 

“Thomas?” Out of fondness.

He comes to and turns around to find Phyllis standing in the yard behind him, that amused but stern look on her face as if he were seven years old and had done something she wasn't supposed to find funny but did. “Yes?”

“Are you sure you're alright?” Her gaze drifts to the little pile of cigarette stubs by his feet, then back up to his face.

How long has he been out here? “Really, I'm fine. You don't need to worry” Maybe he will tell her one day, but she already knows so many of his secrets. Not that he minds. His old self would have minded very much indeed and expected her to use those secrets against him. But not all people are like that, he knows that now. He can trust Phyllis, even with his love-life. (Not two months ago, she had nursed his heart through a bad break-up with dozens of cups of tea in front of the fire at night)

“If you say so” She gives him the 'long-suffering older sister'-sigh and starts to turn away.

“Phyllis” He doesn't even know what he wants to say … “Thank you. For worrying” That seems like the right thing because she smiles and nods, then goes back inside.

Funny, isn't it? He had needed his darkest hour to finally fix the light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * later known as The Battle of Cable Street  
> ** Much used expression in WW1. Also, the first line of a popular song from that era
> 
> Meta: It is never stated in canon when and where exactly both of them are wounded, is it? Maybe I overlooked that. In my head-canon, Thomas was injured in the Battle of the Ancre and Edward was injured a few months later in the same place when the official Battle of the Somme was already over. (Wikipedia says it's possible. To maintain suspension of disbelief, I didn't read the whole articles) (Also, kind of creepy fact: My great-grandfather stood on the other side of the front sometime during the Battle of the Somme and was shot in the arm.)
> 
> Chapter 2 is finished, just needs some editing. I had to post this though, before my courage leaves me or the flu gets me.


	2. Chapter 2

Some things never change, like afternoon tea in the Library at Downton. Thomas can't help but smile when Miss Sybil – sixteen years old now and looking more and more like her mother every day – breezes past him with a cheerful greeting and a swish of her blue dress. Her cousins Master George and young Master Arthur Talbot follow, arguing if the younger was truly named after King Arthur from the stories. Nanny will bring down little Miss Cecily Talbot from the Nursery soon. These carefree children (granted, two of them are half-orphans) know little about the hardships of the world yet, of war, survival and heartbreak and of seeing everything you know slip away with the progress of time. As opposed to the adults in the room: Lord Grantham – his health failing these days – and Lady Grantham who is developing a growing longing for the America of her childhood and majestic-as-ever Lady Mary. And Thomas, of course. All of them have seen the times change so much, the world of today would be unrecognisable to their younger selves who lived back when the telephone was a novelty and women were still required to own and wear tea-gowns.

As if on cue, Master George is proudly showing his little brother a book about the latest technological advances of mankind and Miss Sybil is leafing through a brand new collection of poems that the Dowager Countess would find _most_ unsuitable – both books came in a parcel with some other gifts, from the Marchioness of Hexham, the children's beloved Auntie Edith.

“Oh, listen to this, isn't it so true?”, Miss Sybil says to her grandmother who is sitting next to her, “ _What might have been and what has been / Point to one end, which is always present / Footfalls echo in the memory / Down the passage which we did not take / Towards the door we never opened / Into the rose-garden. / My words echo / Thus, in your mind / But to what purpose / Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves / I do not know._ ”

Thomas can't help but take it in and double back to his earlier thoughts about Edward. He doesn't want to, standing here with most of the family present, but his mind doesn't ask for permission – at least Messrs. Branson and Talbot are not there; he is spared that much. After all, the Crawleys had been affected by the events as well, albeit in a different way and less directly. Everything was connected to everything that had happened, could have happened and would not have happened if maybe Thomas had not met Captain Crawley in the trenches at precisely that moment, if her Ladyship had not spoken for him to return to Downton in the first place or if she had done it a little later, if Lady Sybil … had not been Lady Sybil and taken a special interest in Thomas and Edward.

 

 

_It was always quite an effort to talk Edward out of his hopelessness, if one managed it at all, Thomas had learned that quickly. But that night it was especially bad, after he had spent most of the day vehemently and eloquently refusing to even try and walk on his own with a blind man's cane. It would be a step towards a possible future and Edward reacted to that like a hedgehog you tried to tickle. Thomas could forgive himself for losing patience after an hour of whispered discussion by the bedside, some time after midnight._

“ _Truly, what the Hell have you got to lose, anyway? Stand up, Lieutenant, and fight”, he snapped eventually and felt inclined to shake the other man, to wake him from this nightmare of self-pity he had locked himself into and was wasting his life with._

_A raw, desperate look crossed Edward's face and Thomas was afraid he had overdone it and lost him. But then a new expression settled on his features and Thomas knew it for what it was immediately: defiance. “Ha”, he said in a curious mixture between a sob and a laugh, “I believe you're right, Corporal”_

_Well, finally. All the frustration evaporated. “There you are, then. And now you must try and go to sleep. We will start practice tomorrow” Thomas resisted the urge to tuck him in like a child and kiss him good-night and walked away. He was only mildly startled to find Nurse Crawley in the doorway, tired but smiling. She followed him outside into the courtyard where he lit a cigarette. Surprisingly, she accepted when he offered her one._

“ _You know, whenever my spirit needs to be lifted, I try to find you and Lieutenant Courtenay”, she said after a while, “You're doing each other good, even when you're disagreeing, everyone can see that. And you're the only person here who really knows how to handle him”_

“ _Few people can get through to him. You are one of the few, as well. He speaks very highly of you, M'lady” He only used her title when they were alone, it had grown into a bit of a nickname already, a memento of times past._

“ _That's nice of you to say, but it's not the same. You have a very special bond”_

“ _I suppose so” This conversation was going in a dangerous direction and Thomas wondered if Lady Sybil knew and since when. “But then, we're all soldiers, we have lived through the same things, it does form a bond that might surprise … a civilian”_

“ _I understand that very well – I witnessed it with my father and Mr. Bates … But this is different. Very much so. And, at the risk of being terribly forward, I only meant to tell you: This … friendship you have with Lieutenant Courtenay … it is beautiful. Don't let society or rank or any such nonsense get in your way”_

_Bloody Hell, she knew. But even in the half-dark Thomas could see the friendly smile and knew her words were spoken in earnest. He tried to return the favour although his heart was beating on his tongue. “Thank you, M'lady … And, at the risk of being even more forward, I hope you listen to your own advice. Regarding a … a certain Irishman I'm personally not too fond of” Of course he had noticed_ that _; it was the kind of secret that was right up his alley. She blushed and a mixture of fear and stubbornness crossed her face. Thomas' reputation was, as always, preceding him. “I won't tell a soul, M'lady. I swear on me mother's grave”, he hastily assured her. He would never dream of using this against her. It was love, after all, and this was Lady Sybil, always his favourite Crawley sister (which was something he would_ never _say out loud)._

“ _Very well” Lady Sybil cleared her throat and crushed the cigarette with her heel. That seemed to do wonders for her composure. “Thomas, you distracted me. Originally, I was going to say I overheard you discussing practice with Lieutenant Courtenay and I meant to offer you my help. There have been other blinded officers here before you arrived and I was involved in their treatment”_

“ _That's kind of you. We would appreciate your help” How easily it slipped off the tongue. 'We'._

_She nodded and gave him one last smile. “Good night, Thomas”_

“ _Good night, M'lady” He couldn't help but notice how much she had grown up as he watched the darkness swallow her. When he had gone to war, Lady Sybil had still been the sprightly girl filled with romantic idealism he had met on his first day at Downton. This young woman here, Nurse Crawley, was still an idealist and still spirited but she had had the shine taken off her world-view. If anything, that gave her more confidence and she had also grown into making use of that dangerous determination inherited from old Lady Grantham. She would help and Edward would get better, there was no question about it for her._

_If Edward got better, he would be sent away. The thought occurred to Thomas so suddenly and filled him with so much dread he felt unsteady for a moment. But it was selfish, he knew that. He couldn't let his infatuation with the man get in the way of his recovery. No, Thomas would do everything to make Edward feel better, even if the price was letting him go. (Only for a while, not forever, hopefully) A weird sentiment made him shiver and Thomas realized that it might be a hint of selflessness and that he hadn't felt that in a long time, if he ever had._

 

 

Thomas is pretty convinced that Edward had made him a better man. Made him be kind and less deceitful and he knows he could have grown into a decent fellow with Edward there as his friend. With Edward still _somewhere_ in the world. And Edward, with his help, could have maybe left his depression behind and become the light of so many people's lives. Thomas probably would not have done most of the vile things he did in the years following the war, would not have alienated himself from the rest of the world quite so far. Probably would not have been driven to actually attempt suicide himself – and the method he chose to do it was not coincidental, either.

Today, when Thomas thinks about Edward with a heavy heart, he doesn't just mourn the loss of a friend, but the loss of two lives that could have been lived, chances that could have been taken and destinies left unfulfilled. Wasted in a demise that served no purpose except as fate's plot device – without Edward's death Downton might never have become a convalescent home and all the good that happened here would have been lost instead. A thought that doesn't pass lightly through Thomas' mind. He remembers how he had stood in the hall, dutiful as always, when the officers arrived, hardly able to keep up his arrogant façade – a voice in the back of his head screaming in frustration because Edward should have bloody well been among these men if the world were a fairer place. (Alright, not literally. He should have been out of the hospital for good by the time Downton opened and should have returned to his family. But that's not the point)

“Barrow, are you not well? You're white as a sheet”, Lord Grantham's voice cuts through his musings.

Maybe it would be better to withdraw for a few hours, Thomas decides, and put his mind in order. “I'm sorry, M'lord. I'm afraid I'm coming down with something”

“Shall we call the doctor?” Lady Grantham still likes to jump out of her skin with concern if given the chance, that hasn't changed with age.

“Thank you, M'lady, but it's not all that bad. If I could just lie down for a few hours …”

“Of course, of course. You go along, I'm sure we can manage the rest of the day without you for once”, Lord Grantham dismisses him.

Thomas gives him a grateful nod and walks stiffly out of the room. He doesn't miss the sceptical look Miss Sybil shoots him across the rim of her teacup. Surely, he has not heard the end of this.

He can feel the walls around his memories finally crumble as soon as he is out and he knows he won't be able to maintain the dignified look much longer. His only hope is that no-one is in the stairwell while he makes his way to his room in the attic – the one that has been his ever since he first came here and stayed his during the war and through all his miserable years until today. Even while he'd been absent, no-one else had lived in there. Those walls have heard his hopeful whispers and seen his tears. They are the most reliable witness to his loneliness.

It is a near miss with one of the maids but he slips into the room eventually and closes the door. His restless steps take him around the chamber like they do so often at night until his own reflection in the mirror catches his attention. Thomas is amazed by how young he still looks when the mask slips. Yes, his hair has gone mostly grey, there is the odd line on his face and from the way he pinches his eyes lately, he can tell he'll be investing in a proper pair of glasses soon. But he can still see himself as he was then, the dashing young soldier back from the war, a Corporal's stripes on his sleeve and the cap tidily on his head. More importantly, he can still see the man who had taken Edward for a walk in the woods that one day – a few hours that, despite everything, contain one of his happiest memories.

 

 

_Edward was doing so much better, picking his way across the uneven ground with the cane and cautious steps. He only needed Thomas' hand on his arm for guidance now, not to hold him up. It was the first time he was allowed to go outside properly without the bandages and it was a beautiful sight to behold how much he enjoyed it. They made their way to a clearing off the path and sat down on the ground. After a minute, Edward carefully leaned back until he was lying down, looking to all the world as if he were gazing at the sky dotted with little white clouds. But he wasn't, of course, he was running his hands through the grass, feeling the spring flowers and last autumn's leaves with a soft smile on his lips that spoke of nostalgia. Yes, a beautiful sight, indeed._

“ _It's weirdly unsettling, you know”, he suddenly said._

“ _What is?” Thomas watched the shadow-play of the leaves on Edward's pale face, the light now and then catching on a button on his uniform and sending a glint back at the sky, like a signal._

“ _Not being able to tell if people are looking at me”_

_Thomas was taken aback and his mouth kind of ran away with him. “I am looking at you, now” And he couldn't bring himself to stop._

“ _I know. I can feel it now. At least, I think I can … Thomas, tell me, is it … very bad? The scars and everything, I mean” A slight blush settled across the defined cheekbones. It was the first time he had asked about it but certainly not the first time he had worried._

_Thomas searched frantically for a way to put his answer without sounding soppy but all he could muster was a hitched breath before Edward turned away and whispered: “Well then …”_

_No! “No! I mean … It's not bad. Absolutely not … I was just trying to put into words how handsome you are without sounding like a girl” If Edward could say blunt things like that, so could Thomas._

“ _Huh?” The blush spread down his cheeks and under his collar. Thomas was more than intrigued with how far down exactly it could go. “You're winding me up, Corporal, aren't you?” His tone was half mocking, half hurt, like he wasn't sure himself what he wanted to hear._

_Very well, Thomas would give him the truth. “Actually, I'm not, Lieutenant … There are some scars but they're not half as bad as they were at the beginning … Here, let me show you. These are the ones people would notice, say, from across the street … Now, Edward, don't be alarmed, I'm going to touch your face” Very carefully, he followed the few remaining big welts next to Edward's left eye, then let his fingertips map out the ones that had already begun to fade. “These are the ones they would notice across the dinner-table … And the rest is really insignificant in polite company because they'd have to get as close as me right now to see them” Close enough to count his eyelashes and smell a lingering trace of shaving soap. 'Bloody Hell, what am I doing?' Digging his own grave, probably. If Edward didn't know about his feelings by now, he would after this. “As for your eyes, they look like a mist has settled over the ocean. Blue and green and not, all at the same time” Damn, it would be so easy to kiss him. But Thomas was afraid of taking advantage of the trust this half-helpless man put into him. Afraid of ruining everything like he had so often before. When Edward turned his cheek slightly against Thomas' trembling palm, Thomas, for the first time in his love-life, erred on the side of caution and finally pulled away. This was too important._

“ _Thank you, for your honesty” Edward smiled sincerely, then sighed.“What I would give to look at_ you _only once. Most of the nurses fancy you, just so you know”_

“ _I … I'm acceptable, I guess. You'll have to take people's word for it” Contrary to what some thought and to the image he tried to project, Thomas wasn't that confident about his looks._

“ _So, you really do look like a male version of Snow White, from the fairy-tale?” The smile turned into a boyish grin for a second and it seemed like Edward might actually laugh._

“ _No-one has ever put it that way, but yeah, you could say that … Maybe, to give you a better idea you could … look at me with your hands, if you want. I've seen it done before” Thomas really didn't know what he was thinking, venturing onto thin ice like this. If he had any sense of self-preservation he would never have offered this. His heart was beating so heavily, Edward must notice any moment now._

“ _We could try that but only if you're truly comfortable with it” They both sat up to make it easier. Unable to respond properly, Thomas took his hands and led them along. “You're nervous” Edward seemed genuinely surprised._

“ _Well, it's not every day I have someone touch my face like this” In fact, no-one really touched him voluntarily and Thomas had a feasible theory as to why: they could see what he was immediately and it put them off. And if they could see it, surely Edward would be able to feel it, if it was something in his face. Thomas' mind was reduced to one big blurry mess of wanting to run away and never wanting this moment to end. Held together at the seams by the self-control only so many years in service could teach you. And by the thought that, if he never had any tenderness in his life again, he would have these stolen moments at least, to go back to and draw strength from._

_Edward's fingers traced the outlines of his face, gently and with unmasked fascination, lingering on his lips a little longer than strictly necessary. Thomas tried to take even breaths as Edward's slim hands painted a tingling trail on his skin, like sunlight._

“ _I'm afraid this is not really helping. Sometimes I can almost imagine what you look like and then the picture slips away again”_

_Thomas wanted to say something encouraging but he didn't trust his voice to get out more than a jumble of empty words as long as Edward's hands were cradling his face and his thumb stroking absently along his cheek. Every second was torture for Thomas' nerves but when Edward did drop his hands, it was still too soon. His smile had been replaced by the tiny frown that seemed to be his modus operandi since he'd been injured._

“ _We should get back. You mustn't be late for your shift”_

_As they walked back, Edward clung to his arm much as he had done at the start and the leaden heaviness of depression was back in his movements. Still, it had let up somewhat for half the afternoon. That was something they could work with. And it had served another purpose: Thomas knew now that he was utterly gone for this man._

 

 

In reality, Edward hadn't even been his type. Nonchalant, self-assured pretty boys like the Duke of Crowborough or Jimmy Kent were what attracted young Thomas, not solemn, injured and obviously depressed Edward. Maybe, in his former life Edward had been one of these men – he certainly had the looks and the demeanour – but he was stripped bare of all that veneer when Thomas had met him. He only had his sharp mind and the ability to radiate a curious sort of warmth and kindness in the moments when the depression loosened her hold on him, which were few and precious.

Thomas had never told him about his … inclinations and thought himself cowardly at the time, but in hindsight it was a wise move. This way, he never knew what Edward thought about the subject and it is an odd consolation that he might have turned away from Thomas anyway. That there never was a chance for a _future_ of any kind. If he were certain that Edward accepted him and his friendship – maybe also his love – his death would have destroyed Thomas. Ripped him into even tinier shreds than it already did. Like this, it remained _a door we never opened_ , one of a million pathways untrodden. Mind you, it doesn't mean Thomas didn't fall headlong in love somewhere along the way. And Edward had been taken from him before it could all be messed up by time, circumstance or Thomas himself. It feels wrong and exceedingly sappy to speak of “true love” when they had known each other for less than two weeks but Edward might have been just that. Could have been. They will never know now.

Never, because the next day had been the end of it, when everything had come to a grinding halt with the inevitability and the jolting of a train at the end of the line.

 

 

_A little girl Thomas had seen around a few times – her father was one of the patients, he had lost a leg – crossed the garden with a certainty only a child could possess. She had taken to Edward since she'd first seen him, to the quiet horror of her mother. The girl clambered onto the bench next to him and took his hand. Thomas edged closer to listen and observe, under the pretence of shifting the chairs they had put out._

“ _Of course you can bring me flowers. I would like that very much”, he heard Edward say._

“ _But …”, she chewed her lip uneasily, “But you can't …”_

“ _I can't see them, no. But I will know they're there and that you brought them”_

_The girl's face lit up. “Ah, yes, that makes perfect sense”_

_And Edward laughed softly. The sound rang through the haze in Thomas' head and pulled at his heart until it was nothing but jittering fireflies. They both went about practice with exceptional vigour after that and Edward could hold his concentration up for much longer than usual. Thomas couldn't, though. He kept thinking about the warm, surprisingly gravelly tone of Edward's laughter and how it had transformed his whole appearance from a ghost of himself into a solid presence for a moment. And he tried to stop dancing inside every time he thought about it. When Major Clarkson arrived to compliment Edward on his progress, it took all his effort to stand to attention and listen to the conversation._

“ _You'll be pleased to hear that we're all agreed that it's time to continue your treatment elsewhere” Major Clarkson said it in such cheerful, even tones that it took a moment to register with all of them._

“ _What?”, Edward asked, taken aback, like he had never even thought about leaving ever again._

_And Thomas almost screamed out: 'No, you cannot do that! You cannot, because_ Edward has laughed _, for God's sake and nothing else can hold a candle to that. Not the rules, not the authorities and definitely not you ignorant doctor!' Thomas had been prepared to let him go, but only if it was the right thing to help him. This wasn't right, it was going to break Edward._

“ _Please, don't send me away … Not yet” The intense, sharp tone was back and Thomas knew Edward well enough by now to recognise it as deep, cold fear muddled with frustration._

_A fear that gripped Thomas also, so strongly that he ventured disagreeing with his immediate superior who shut him up with an icy glare, making it quite clear that he had just overstepped the mark. The Major explained something Thomas didn't hear over the thrumming in his head and Edward just stood there and accepted it, like a man getting his death sentence. Hopeless, lifeless, like the last few days hadn't taken place at all._

“ _Corporal, I'll see you in my office” That got through and Thomas pulled himself up and squared his shoulders._

“ _All is not lost”, he whispered to Edward in passing and gave a nod to Lady Sybil who was staring daggers at the Major's retreating figure. Oh, all was lost, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight._

 

 

It was unfair – they punished Edward for getting better. At least that was how Thomas saw it at the time. It had taken him years to accept that the doctor was just carrying out orders without questioning them like a good soldier – or a good servant – would. The way he had done it was debatable and Thomas still holds it against him on a bad day. Major Clarkson didn't know Edward, had made no effort to, and saw him with professional distance, not as an emotionally unstable man who needed to be comforted but as one of many blinded soldiers who had to take his cards as they were dealt to him and move on. (And then there was the way he had talked to Lady Sybil who gave every waking hour to the hospital) The doctor refused to look beyond the obvious: Edward hadn't lost parts of his body or a lot of blood, he didn't have internal injuries, so he was declared ' _not ill anymore_ ' – but he was dying nonetheless. He was treated like a broken thing that could either be physically repaired and sent back or not. If he could not, he was useless to the system, hence his individual, private needs were ignored, even if it killed him. Soldiers were only military hardware, coals for the furnace. One single lost young man didn't matter on his own. Alright, it still makes Thomas mad, all of it.

Even though he remembers everything about him, the need to see Edward and be properly reminded becomes overwhelming and he digs up the little metal box that is hidden in the corner of his wardrobe. It contains a red-cross badge, a handful of different uniform buttons, some postcards, newspaper clippings and his old lighter, along with two items securely wrapped in paper: a little book and a portrait – souvenirs of the time that seems almost like another world, like a separate thing, a whole story in parentheses. Here is the war, in a little metal box; here is a physical summary of Thomas and Edward's last conversation when at least one of them didn't know it would be their last.

 

 

“ _Don't worry, Edward” Thomas didn't care who heard him call him that now. It was not important anymore. “I'll visit you as soon as I can and I'm sure you'll be well looked after”_

“ _Certainly”, Edward mumbled, a threadbare quality to his voice. The vacant look Thomas had spent all this time chasing away was back._

_They both recognised the steps that approached the bed although they weren't her usual lady-like subdued kind. “I will talk to Mrs. Crawley, she has some influence around here, and if that doesn't help, I will ask my father”, Lady Sybil said._

“ _Thank you, M'lady, but you really don't have to call in your favours for me. Besides, I don't think it's much use” Even the fear was gone from Edward's voice. He sounded so … tired._

“ _It may not be. But I was never one to pass up a chance of fighting for a good cause” This way of hers would surely land Lady Sybil in deep water one day, but right now Thomas was grateful for her stubbornness, because his own mind was blank._

_Edward shook his head and gave them his cynical smile. “What do you propose? To go on strike?”_

“ _Now, don't be silly. We'll have to play along for now and I'll set things in motion as soon as I can, starting tonight”_

_Thomas was expecting another bitter response, but Edward didn't seem to have the strength for that anymore. “Thank you, honestly. Both of you”, he said and there seemed to be much more behind it than the mere words suggested, a whole heart full of feelings he could not talk about then and there._

_With a deep sigh, he half-heartedly began to gather what things he could reach and stuff them into a canvas bag. A small book fell to the floor. Thomas was expecting a Bible or something similar but it turned out to be a quite tattered copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets. The corner of a photograph was peeking out between the pages and Thomas couldn't help but open the book and look at it. A thrill went through him as he realized what he held in hand: a portrait of Edward, of how he had been … before. With clear, alert eyes and a smile that spoke of confidence, proud to wear a soldier's uniform, having made a real effort to tidy his hair. There was a tiny hint of that familiar frown, though. Maybe he hadn't been as carefree as Thomas had thought. Or maybe he just didn't like sitting still. Behind the photograph was a folded piece of paper that only had two words in a decidedly elegant handwriting on it: 'Dear Mother'._

“ _Was that the book? … You can keep it, if you like. I've no use for it anymore” Edward knotted his fingers as if he had to be reminded of their existence._

“ _What about … the picture?” His voice didn't fail and Thomas was rather proud of that._

“ _I had it taken in France and was going to send it to my mother, but … well … You can keep that also. It shall be a reminder of the things war does to people” He fumbled with something and Thomas realized it was the shot-up lighter. “Here, this is yours” A trembling hand was extended in Thomas' general direction._

“ _You keep that” Without thinking about who might see them, Thomas wrapped both hands around his and held it gently. “It will remind you you're safe”_

_Before he could do anything truly stupid, Nurse Crawley interrupted them. She had finished packing up Edward's clothes. “Corporal Barrow, I really think we should be getting back to work now. It would be no use to get into any more trouble today” She took Edward's hand for a moment. “We will say goodbye properly in the morning, if I haven't sorted it out by then. Good night, Lieutenant”_

“ _Good night”, Edward whispered, defeated. He sat there, his shoulders sunken and what little colour he had had drained from his face, almost physically shrouded in a black cloud of misery._

_Nurse Crawley steered Thomas away and pulled him into an empty store-room along the hall. “You haven't told him how you feel, have you?”_

“ _Heaven forbid. He would hate me if I did” Thomas was bewildered to say the least. Surely, even with all her liberal ideas, she had to know how things were for men like him._

“ _I don't think so, Thomas. He's very fond of you and he strikes me as open-minded … And even if he doesn't feel that way about you, I think it'll help him to know there's someone out there who … loves him”_

_If he hadn't been so preoccupied, Thomas would've admired her to no end for her bold words. “I wish I had your optimism, M'lady”_

“ _Promise me”, she whispered urgently, “Promise me you'll tell him”_

_Briefly, Thomas wondered why it meant so much to her, but he really had no time for that. He needed to get away and think, alone. “I will tell him, some day. When the time is right” When he wasn't a coward anymore. “See you in the morning, M'lady” He left the room with no idea where he was going. His mind was already trying to grasp a possibility to get himself transferred to Farley Hall or alternatively to keep Edward here. It would need a bunch of thinking and scheming but, like Lady Sybil, Thomas was never one to take things lying down. He would not lose Edward and that was final._

 

 

Death makes everything so awfully final. It is the one truth that can't be interpreted and changed by opinion or time. Edward is dead and has been for almost twenty years now – that is the way it is. And everything Thomas didn't say to him will forever remain unsaid. They will never have the benefit of hindsight, will never look back and laugh about it, or whatever people do when they grow old and happy. Edward will never grow old and happy, he will stay like he was the moment his lifeblood left him. And Thomas will be left to wonder when exactly Edward had decided to take the final step on the stairway to death he had been climbing since the moment he'd woken up blind in a field hospital in France, and if Thomas could have saved him if he had come to terms with himself a little faster.

 

 

_Thomas woke from his fitful sleep with a shiver, still sitting upright against the cold wall behind his bed. Right, he had been contemplating … things. Really, these odd hours were jumbling his mind, especially when he stayed up to be with Edward after a night-shift. Edward. He had been contemplating … In a few hours he would be forced to leave and Thomas couldn't come up with any sort of plan to keep him there except offering his own room. Of course that would be impossible to get approved. He was also more than ready to try blackmail, if only he had anything to blackmail the Major with … There was no way around it, Edward was going to go away._

_But that led Thomas to the next question: Should he tell him? How important he was to Thomas, how he hoped they could face the future together … And should he tell him now, when Edward was so shaken? Maybe Lady Sybil was right and it would help him. And maybe she wasn't and it would scare him off. Could he really risk it? Wouldn't it be better to leave things as they were and remain the steadying friend Edward needed? But what if – Thomas felt a shiver run through him just at the thought … what if Edward felt the same way? Wouldn't that keep their spirits up until they met again?_

_Oh, it was no use, he was thinking in circles. He needed to see Edward, speak to him and feel out the general situation, then he would decide. On his way downstairs, it seemed like he was descending ever further into a fog of anxiety. It made him feel almost sick and he had to stop and collect himself because he knew Edward would notice it. As soon as he entered the room, Thomas knew something was wrong. Death was lingering in the air. And then he saw … he saw everything … the puddle of blood on the floor, Edward's blue lips, the doctor shaking his head with solemn certainty as the nurse pulled a sheet over Edward's face, the blood, all the blood … It felt as if time moved too fast and not at all. Thomas wanted to scream, wanted to yell: 'No! Stop!', and dig his fingers into the fabric of time and pull it back. Back to a moment when Edward was still alive, there was still hope and still uncertainties. But instead, the fingers of time curled into a fist and punched Thomas in the chest, knocked the breath right out of him. This was it. Edward was gone. Irrevocably, eternally. Gone._

 

 

Thomas had seen deaths much more gruesome than this in the trenches. Compared to those, it was almost peaceful. But nothing, no war and no destruction, ever shocked him as much as seeing Edward white and lifeless in that bed. It was the end of all possibilities. They fell from Edward's cut wrist and shattered on the floor.

It's a dangerous business, having a heart. And leaving it open and vulnerable can cost you your life; Thomas knew it then and he knows even better today. He had opened up to Edward as much as he had dared, had tried not to go back to the way he had been before the war and it had felt good and right. Then it had felt like walking into a brick wall.

And that was when the rest of reality had finally come back to Thomas on the back of this tidal wave of grief. The war was still raging on, while they had been living in their little bubble of borrowed time. Chances were that everyone he had known over there was dead – the unfailingly optimistic Captain Frederick, Rodney McClyde who was so tall he constantly had to stoop pretty low not to stick out of the trenches, his half-French friend Alexander Thierry who always carried a postcard that said: ' _What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the high Roman fashion, and make Death proud to take us_ '*, sent to him by his late brother from another part of the front – they and all the others were probably lost. He could hear the grenades thunder again and the 'plink' of the debris hitting steel helmets, could see the soldiers lying in the mud blackened by their blood. He could feel it again, the horror all the men tried to ignore while they were busy being heroes, until it sprang at them like a wild beast, made them do desperate things like raising a lighter above the trench wall. Made them leave their comrades to die. And Thomas was still alive. Alone.

Only a few hours after Edward's death, Thomas had put his heart into the familiar coffin of ice and steel again because he didn't know what else to do to get rid of the pain. It was the way he did these things. How he had always done it and continued to do for years and years afterwards until it didn't work anymore and he broke his golden rule of Never Giving Up. That doesn't mean he didn't feel the pain all the time. It may have been locked up, but it was always there, still is, as today shows. Along with the thundering grenades and the dying screams of fellow soldiers, it will never leave him.

“Mr. Barrow?”, a knock on the door, a female voice, “Mr. Barrow, I'm coming in” Miss Sybil pokes her head in, leaving him hardly enough time to come back to the present, dry his eyes and get up from the bed. She really does look like her mother, fierce and upbeat and beautiful. “What ever's the matter with you today?” She pulls up the chair and signals him to sit back down. And then those assessing blue eyes are on him, just the way they were back then.

 

 

“ _Thomas? Thomas, are you in there?” The door opened and he scrambled to his feet, trying and failing to stop the sobs that fell from his lips._

“ _Lady S- Nurse Crawley, I …” He didn't even have anything to say, just tried to gloss over the emptiness in his mind._

_But she shook her head, whispered “I know” and put her small but firm hand on his shoulder. “I know there's nothing I can do to make it better” Lady Sybil looked and sounded close to tears herself, Thomas noticed despite everything._

 

 

“Is there anything I can do?” Sometimes, it's hard to remember this young girl isn't Lady Sybil. Even her voice is similar (although there is a hint of her father's accent in there that she refuses to let go of, upper-class education be damned).

“Thank you, Miss Sybil, you are kind. But I'm just a foolish old man reminiscing about old times” A single tear escapes his eye and she puts her hand on his shoulder.

 

 

“ _Yes, there is, M'lady. We … we shall never … forget him. That's the least we can do” In an act of lost desperation, he reached out and took Lady Sybil's other hand._

 

 

Miss Sybil is obviously determined to share his pain. “Whose photo is that, if I may ask?”

He hands the portrait over to her. “His name was Lieutenant Edward Courtenay. He was a friend of mine and your mother's, during the war”

At the mention of her mother, her eyes flash vividly. “Do tell me, please” Carefully, she slides from the chair and sits next to him on the bed, Edward's photograph still in her hand, looking between the young man's image and Thomas with rapt attention.

 

 

_Lady Sybil squeezed his hand and smiled sadly. “No, we shall never. He will live on in our memories”_

 

 

'Like you live in mine, M'lady' She was another destiny unfulfilled. Three lives touched by each other, entwined at the crossroads of war. “It was 1917 and Lady Sybil and I were working at the hospital …”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra
> 
> Oof, now I need to run and write something happy.


End file.
